


Well I Know This Little Chapel on the Boulevard

by khasael



Series: Hale and Hearty [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Has Feelings, Following Through, Hale Family Feels, Honeymoon, Hotel Sex, Las Vegas, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Pack Feels, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Derek, Realization, Scent Marking, Stiles Loves Cake, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:58:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a temporary marriage, isn't it? They can get it annulled in the morning. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well I Know This Little Chapel on the Boulevard

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest one of the series (and has the most tags), but it's definitely clearer if you read the first few before it.

It's still a little light out when they leave the hotel, change of clothes in hand, and Stiles seems happy enough to go along with Derek's suggestion of a taxi because parking is ridiculous in this city, and it's way too hot to walk that far.

"So what's this chapel like?" Stiles asks as they sit in the backseat of the taxi. He's got his new clothes in the garment bag they gave him at the store draped over his lap, and the plastic's making enough noise to be irritatingly noticeable. His right hand is shoved into his pocket, like's he's got hold of something in there that's important. He keeps fiddling with whatever it is, which is half the reason Derek had taken the marriage license from him before they left. If they're really going through with this, then they're going to need that unmangled.

Derek shrugs a little, because he can't quite figure out how to describe it. It wasn't as if he had walked by the place and the clouds had parted and some choir of angels had sung, indicating this was it. "Like I said, it's nice enough. It's kind of famous. They have a drive-through option, but I didn't think we'd have heard the officiant over the Jeep's engine. It's a chapel, I guess. I don't really have much to compare it to." Really, he'd talked to the concierge at the hotel for his input, then called the place and inquired as to whether walk-ins were okay or if they had an opening in reservations sometime this evening, and that had pretty much decided it. He'd done a bit of talking with one of the coordinators, going over which things he did and didn't want to include in the ceremony and package, paid a deposit, and that had been that.

Stiles nods. "Hey, that's all that matters, I guess." His heart rate's been slowly climbing since they've been in the taxi, but it's just nerves, Derek knows. He's familiar with Stiles's heartbeat by now, with the way he breathes—it's etched into Derek's bones, the pattern of what's okay and what means trouble and that ambiguous range that could mean either one, depending upon context. Stiles is nowhere near panic attack status. And if he gets there, really can't go through with what was largely his own idea, Derek will call the whole thing off, pay the chapel fees anyway, and take Stiles out for dinner and a show, or find a movie theater, or even put up with the unholy racket that is the casino floor so Stiles can do a bit of underage gambling, just for the experience.

It's a ten-minute ride to the chapel, despite it being less than three miles up the Strip, and Derek can't find a single casual topic of conversation for the entirety of it. He wants to say something, try to ease Stiles's nerves a little, but nothing comes to mind. He even considers bringing up that moment back in the room, where they'd been so close to a kiss before the phone had rung—with a wrong number, of all things—but worries that will just make Stiles feel more freaked out.

 _Or maybe I should just lean over and fucking kiss him now,_ his brain quietly suggests, and Derek ignores it, like he's been doing for months. He's getting really good at it.

The thing is, Derek is now actually sure Stiles isn't opposed to being kissed. For as smart as he is, Stiles sometimes forgets basic facts, like that Derek, as a born werewolf, has hearing far better than that of the average person, and even better than that of most bitten wolves. He'd _heard_ Stiles talking to himself earlier in the hotel. He'd heard Stiles tell himself he'd better take advantage of the one kiss they were expected to share tonight. He'd heard the muttered, half-sarcastic, half-desperate "fuck me" that had been said as a curse, and then twisted into a semi-sincere wishful invitation. And he knows Stiles has caught the moments throughout today of what Derek can only describe as sexual tension, both because he's heard the things Stiles has said to himself when Derek hasn't quite been out of hearing range, and because he can _smell_ the arousal on him, layered on top of the heavy pounding of Stiles's heart.

Also, Derek isn't always stupid. He may be willfully oblivious sometimes, and just regularly oblivious others, but there's a limit.

If he had been asked, even twelve or so hours ago, how this whole wedding thing with Stiles would go, Derek would have assumed it would be made into an elaborate joke. He would have expected Stiles to make jokes about dog tags instead of wedding rings, and insist on wearing one of his typical plaid shirts, demanding Derek wore his leather jacket. He would have envisioned the gaudiest themed wedding possible, and any number of truly atrocious details.

But that's not at all how this is playing out.

They're in a chapel that, for all its focus on quick, affordable nuptials and selections of themed weddings, still offers more traditional options. They're both going to be wearing nice (though casual) clothing. There are no absurd songs that will play, no celebrity impersonators officiating the ceremony, and Stiles isn't treating this as some great prank. He hasn't even made any jokes.

"So, you're the one walking down the aisle to the 'here comes the bride' music, right?" Stiles says, grin a little unsteady—but still there—as they walk towards the woman who's been assigned as their coordinator. "Because you're the pretty one, and all."

Well. Not _many_ jokes.

"They're not playing that song," Derek says, rolling his eyes a little. Still, he can't help but smile back just a bit. "Just some basic classical stuff, I think."

"What, you mean they're not pumping this selection into the chapel?" Stiles asks, gesturing up at one of the speakers in the ceiling. Apparently, the waiting areas have their own little station of pop love songs. Derek had caught the tail end of something by Elvis as they walked in, and now he can hear something by One Direction. He's going to blame Cora for the fact that he can identify the group at all, even if it's not actually her fault. He's a twenty-something-year-old male. He should not know who One Direction even _are_ , let alone most of the chorus to this song.

"This isn't the world's best selection of music," Stiles mutters under his breath a few minutes later, still stuck on that one point, as their coordinator leaves the room to go grab a book of ceremony and vow options. Derek sort of wants to tell her not to bother, to just pick one she likes, but can't make himself do it. But he also doesn't want to really handle the decision. Either he'll just point to one at random, or let Stiles do it. It's not his thing.

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Generally agreed, but this song will always be tied to _Back to the Future_ , so watch yourself. Huey Lewis is off limits." Oh God, this is another one of those moments where Derek realizes the age difference between them. It's almost always a cultural reference that hits him, and this is no exception.

Stiles gives him a funny look, but the grin that finds a home on his face a moment later is genuine. "Dork," he whispers, nudging Derek's shoulder as the woman comes back into the room. Derek nudges him back, and they both chuckle nervously when she tells them how much she loves her job, because she gets to see couples like them, who are adorable together.

They've been in their little dressing rooms (and Derek would bet money that the accommodations for women on the other side of the building are a hell of a lot larger and nicer) for maybe ten minutes when Derek hears Stiles start muttering to himself. Their wedding coordinator had put them in cubicles across and down from each other, apologizing that they didn't currently have the option to keep them separated like they usually do for brides and grooms, but they'd both assured her neither of them cared. Actually, it's kind of nice to be in the same room, because at least Derek knows Stiles is here, and hasn't done something weird like stand him up. Not that Derek thinks he _would_ , but his brain is giving him all sorts of worst-case scenarios of how this will go. Which he's taking as further proof that this _isn't_ just a joke. Still, the likelihood of Stiles blurting out a question to their officiant over whether a human can legally be married to a werewolf is low, but still crosses his mind. As does the thought that Stiles will tell him immediately after the "I do"s that he's decided to become a Hunter. Or that he'll suddenly morph into Kate Argent, wearing a slutty black dress, the moment the officiant pronounces them married.

Stress. Holy shit, it does some weird things to Derek's head. It gets to him on a deeper level than he'd ever like to admit. Although, from the sound of things, he's not the only one having that sort of issue.

"Dude. Stiles, buddy. Chill a bit. It's just your wedding night. You're not going to embarrass yourself in front of everyone you know, because no one you know is here, besides Derek. You don't have to worry about performance anxiety later, because no one's getting laid. All you have to do is get up there, repeat whatever they tell you to repeat, and get through one kiss. And remember that it's just for show. Don't fucking french the guy and scare him away so badly he doesn't even want to be friends anymore—"

Derek tunes out for a second at that. Does Stiles seriously doubt that Derek wants to kiss him? He can't possibly be that insecure. Then again, he's the one that seems the most panicked about this. Even his heart rate's up, and it doesn't just seem to be due to the fight it sounds like he's losing with the long, plastic garment bag. Derek slips into his new slacks, folding his other clothes neatly onto the provided table and shakes his head. Over in his cubicle, Stiles is still going. Granted, another human probably wouldn't be able to hear anything he was saying, he's muttering it quietly enough, but it's loud and clear to Derek.

It's at the point where Stiles is saying something about the idea of grabbing something good while it's right in front of you versus being better off just keeping his damned mouth shut next time that Derek notices Stiles's heart rate getting a little too close for comfort to that panic attack level. In fact, if Stiles keeps working himself up, he's probably going to hit that point. And it's been a long time since Stiles has had one, which will probably only upset him more.

Derek needs to distract him or somehow calm him down, and fast. The only thing he can think of to do, however, is sort of mortifying. Still. He needs to do something. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, hoping like hell this will have the desired effect, and sings along with the song playing from the speaker overhead, while at the same time wanting to punch himself in the face: "Open up your plans and damn you're free. Look into your heart and you'll find love, love, love, love."

God, he's an idiot.

Stiles, though, stops ranting to himself the second Derek starts singing in what he hopes is at least something close to the right key. A couple of lines later, Stiles's heartbeat has obviously stopped its rapid climb. And when he finishes the chorus, drawing out "I'm youuuuuurs" along with the music, Stiles's clears his throat. "Did you actually just sing along to Jason Mraz?" His voice is full of barely-restrained laughter, and Derek can feel his face go kind of red as he reaches for his shirt.

Still, it worked. He's more than a little pleased with himself.

"Just shut up, okay? It's catchy."

Stiles laughs a little harder, and Derek allows himself a secret smile, hidden in his dressing cubicle. "Yeah, okay, whatever you say." Derek can hear him get back to getting changed, still chuckling, and Derek starts doing up the buttons on his own shirt. There had been this feeling of tension that might have been more than just Stiles getting himself worked up, but whatever it was, it's gone now. It feels almost as comfortable as it does back home, with Stiles badgering him about his taste in movies, or his lack of opinion on video games or certain comic arcs in the Marvel and DC universes, or when they're just lounging on Derek's couch, Derek going through some of his family's surviving old books, and Stiles studying.

Derek is fully ready and just standing in his cubicle, impatiently waiting for their wedding coordinator as he plays with his cufflinks, when the song now playing hits its own chorus, and Stiles pipes up, absolutely _wailing_ the words: " I wanna know what love iiiiiiiis! I want you to shooooooooow meeeeeeeeeeee!"

Derek laughs so hard he nearly chokes. Through the small gaps in the slats, he can see Stiles raise his arms in victory from his own dressing room, visible over the top of the door.

He manages to regain composure after another minute or so, wiping at the tears leaking from his eyes, and can't help from joining in once the song cycles back to the chorus, which is the only bit Derek knows—and he's willing to bet the same is true for Stiles—even though it's older than either of them. This time, both he and Stiles belt the lines out, completely uncaring about things like pitch, and it feels _good_.

Of course, that's when their coordinator walks back into the room, with a strangled-sounding "Gentlemen?" once the chorus is over.

"Uh, yeah?" Stiles says, the first to recover. His embarrassment is plain, but it's muted a little by the smile that can be heard in his voice.

"If you're dressed and... otherwise ready... it's time for your ceremony. Just follow me."

Derek takes a deep breath and steps out of his cubicle. Stiles is out before he is, standing next to their coordinator and putting something into her hand, but he turns around as Derek emerges. His eyes go wide and his jaw goes a little slack and, honestly, it's kind of flattering to get that sort of raw, honest response, especially since Derek doesn't think he's wearing anything particularly stunning. "Holy mother of God," Stiles chokes out, and Derek can feel his face go warm.

"Your man cleans up good," their coordinator says approvingly. "Just think if you two had rented tuxes." And with that, she's gesturing over her shoulder for them to follow her.

Derek dips his head a little closer to Stiles's ear as they hit the short staircase to lead them up into one of the main chapel rooms, the woman ahead of them already at the top. "I don't think we need the tuxes," he whispers. "You look great in what you've got on."

Stiles's ears turn red, and his heartbeat does kick up a little, but there's that slight tinge of arousal and something else pleasant that Derek's never quite been able to name to his scent, and Derek can't help but breathe it in deeply. It's not a lie, either. Stiles has on a dark charcoal-colored vest over a white and blue shirt, and a pair of jeans just a shade or two lighter than the vest. The sleeves are rolled up just below the elbow, and Derek knows he's going to keep finding excuses to look at Stiles's forearms all night, because the look highlights the muscles well. "You don't have to say that," he mumbles, and nope, Derek's not taking that.

He reaches out and puts a hand on Stiles's arm, just above the elbow. "I'm not just saying it," he clarifies, giving a light squeeze. "I'm serious." There's a funny little hiccupping blip to Stiles's heartbeat, and Derek wonders how it's only now that they're just sort of fumbling around this mutual attraction, neither of them yet able to just fucking man up and say something.

He really hopes that this... _thing_ they're doing here, right now, doesn't fuck up any chance at exploring it at some later date. But it's too late now, isn't it?

Stiles mumbles a 'thanks' and keeps walking, right up until they're told to stop for a second. Stiles has a decent hold on his heart rate again, and Derek now feels like it's his turn to feel a little panicky. It's nothing more than a bit of pretend, really, he knows. They can file for an annulment in the morning, and it'll be as if it never happened in the eyes of the law. It's not really _important_. Only it kind of is, and Derek can't quite name why. Maybe it's that, for a night, he'll be married, and that's something he's thought was never going to happen, period, for a lot of years now. Or maybe it's something else. Either way, it has Derek feeling the need for some sort of reassurance, and he rests the palm of his hand against the small of Stiles's back, not even thinking about it consciously.

Stiles goes stiff for just a second, but then miraculously leans back into the touch. Derek doesn't miss the shaky sigh Stiles breathes out, either. "So we're really doing this?" Stiles murmurs, his head turned just a little in Derek's direction. Derek can see the curve of Stiles's cheekbone, the soft line of his eyelashes as he has his eyes half-closed, even the curious sort of upward tilt to the side of his mouth, and something twists in his stomach and chest. It's more pleasant than unpleasant, but there's a weird sort of ache that comes with it, and it takes Derek a moment to make sure his voice won't betray him when he answers.

"Yeah. We are." He doesn't lean forward and let his forehead rest against Stiles's shoulder, or brush his nose along Stiles's jaw, behind his ear, no matter how much he wants to. They're too close to doing this thing, and he can't broadside Stiles with that kind of weirdness just now.

"Cool." The response is weak, full of nerves, despite the composed look on Stiles's face, and Derek very nearly gives up, reaches up with one hand to cup Stiles's cheek and kiss him, and fuck this playacting thing they're doing. Only their wedding director tugs at Stiles's hand, calling him "sweetie" like she probably does to a hundred people a day, and drags him towards the officiant, saying something about questions on how to pronounce his name.

Derek's eyes might flash blue in irritation for the briefest of seconds, but no one's looking right at him, anyway.

He may have the gift of super-attuned senses, but the next several moments sort of blur for Derek. He vaguely recalls being told about their wedding coordinator being their official witness, since they have no guests. He's aware they're being told there will be a reading before they do the repeat-after-me bit, then they'll be pronounced, then they can kiss if they want, and then it's pictures and signing of documents. He's even only half-aware of their wedding coordinator pressing something small and round into his hand, and the beginning of the actual ceremony. He doesn't really come to completely until the officiant gets to Stiles's name, managing to butcher both last _and_ first, if the wince from Stiles is anything to go by.

And then everything takes on a kind of hyper-focus Derek hasn't felt in years, outside of times he's trying for it, in cases of life-or-death.

He can hear the fountain gently gurgling off near the entrance to the chapel. He can smell the wintergreen mints their officiant had popped into his mouth just before stepping up to begin the ceremony, and the perfume of their wedding coordinator. He can hear, distantly, the sound of someone else being married by Elvis in another of the chapel's rooms. And he can feel, clear as anything, the heat of Stiles's body, so close to his, hear the beat of his heart and rhythm of his breathing, smell the tension and something like anxiety and excitement rolled together, even before they're directed to face each other and hold hands while the officiant reads something called "To My Friend."

All the overwhelming sensations of the world around him fade as Stiles slips his hands into Derek's, focusing his perception in a way that's both a great relief and slightly terrifying. Stiles's hands are warm in his, just a little damp with sweat, and that's okay, because Derek's feel a little slippery, too. They're supposed to be looking at each other, and Derek can't help the little up-and-down thing his stomach does when Stiles gives him an endearingly awkward, self-conscious smile as the older gentleman in front of them goes over the words he's probably said thousands of times before this moment. They shouldn't mean anything, not really, but Derek feels each one lay a small weight on him, grounding him in what otherwise might be a surreal moment:

_I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good, and more than any fate could have done to make me happy. You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign. You have done it by being yourself. Perhaps that is what being a friend means, after all._

Had he picked these words out of the book of pre-approved ceremonies? Had Stiles? Derek no longer remembers, but he finds them as fitting as they could be, all things considered. _You have done more than any creed could have done to make me good_ makes his throat feel thick, makes swallowing harder than usual, because it feels absolutely true. The last few lines make him relive a number of memories in the space of seconds: Stiles's hand on his shoulder with Boyd's blood still on Derek's hands; Stiles sitting with him, his hand on Derek's arm, while Deaton removed the venomous claws of some unnamed creature from Derek's back; Stiles standing firm and telling Derek to stay where he was, to volunteer to be the one to go in and look at the freshly burned-out shell of a small cabin in the woods where they'd thought a witch might be hiding; Stiles just standing with him out in the woods, joking at him and smiling under the moonlight, wrapped up in Derek's leather jacket to keep warm against the winter's chill; Stiles asleep on his couch, looking as comfortable as if he were home, sprawled out with one leg thrown over Derek's lap while the menu on some DVD plays over and over.

He doesn't want this to be something they pretend never happened in weeks and months to come. He wants to remember this, wants _Stiles_ to be willing to remember this. He doesn't know how, but he wants it to be an option. All he can do is give Stiles's hands a slight, almost imperceptible squeeze and hope it conveys something. He doesn't know if it works or not; Stiles doesn't squeeze back, and Derek doesn't have the time to let that drag him down, because then it's Stiles's turn to speak, echoing the words after their officiant.

The words that come out of Stiles's mouth are quiet at first, a little stilted, and Derek has another of those moments where he can't remember which of them picked their vows, or if their coordinator did. He only remembers they weren't allowed to use their own, with so little notice meaning they couldn't be run by the officiant first. But as Stiles gains confidence, Derek can't help but listen to his heartbeat, a steady, solid bass line to underscore the words.

"Derek. Today, I join my life to yours," Stiles begins, and all traces of humor and joking are out of his voice. "Not only as your partner, but as your friend, your lover and your confidant. Let me be the shoulder that you lean on, the rock upon which you rest, the companion of your life. With you I will walk my path from this day forward." He pauses, even longer than the script calls for, and the expression on his face is intense, something Derek can't look away from. "Will you let me share my life and all that I am with you?"

If Derek were prone to panic attacks, he might be flirting with one right now. As it is, his mouth has gone dry. His focus is narrowed still, little more than the feel of Stiles's hands in his, the sound of Stiles's voice, the sight of his deep brown eyes looking steadily and directly into Derek's own. But it's the fact that his heartbeat hasn't once betrayed any of that speech as a lie—had only done the smallest of uncertain blips over the words "your lover" that makes Derek's throat stick again when he swallows, trying to get his voice to allow the two words he's supposed to respond with. "I will."

Perhaps his voice does give something away, because Stiles blinks at him, looking simultaneously surprised and as if he's trying to work out some mystery or puzzle, as he slips a ring onto Derek's finger. Derek barely glances at it, too focused on looking at Stiles instead for some sort of clue that will help him interpret what that's all just meant. When he doesn't get some divine epiphany, he clears his throat and begins his half of the exchange, repeating the same vows, only substituting "Stiles" for Stiles's unpronounceable legal first name, which gets him a brief but genuine smile in response.

It isn't until he hears Stiles's thickly-whispered "I will" and he slides the ring he finds in his pocket onto Stiles's left hand that it slots home. Stiles may not intentionally and expressly be agreeing to the lifelong commitment the chapel's employees assume they're making, but he isn't lying about the basic meaning behind those vows. There's something there that's more than just friends looking out for one another, and it's not all in Derek's head, and he's not reading things that aren't there. There is at least some potential for something to be strengthened between them. It's not even just Derek as their not-quite-Alpha pack leader, and Stiles as one human part of that pack. Not anymore. Still, there's something in the last thirty seconds that _screams_ 'pack' to Derek, whether or not the meaning is intentional from Stiles. And it makes things feel a little clearer.

Derek knows what his next step is, and waits impatiently for the ceremony to conclude. He's awful with words most of the time, he's been teased about it his whole life, and Stiles has kept up that line of joking for the last two years on his own. He's a lot better with action. So he waits for the officiant to go on about the symbol of the rings and their love. He's even more sure of his decision when Stiles can't quite keep back a startled laugh when the guy utters the line, "may you continue to meet with courage any problems which may arise to challenge you," because Derek knows Stiles is thinking of Kanimas and Sirens and Wendigos and whatever the hell else decides to show up in Beacon Hills in the next few weeks or months, and he loves that about him.

He loves that about him.

It's both a punch to the chest and a freeing of bonds around his body, all at once, to even think it.

"...And may everything you have said and done here today become a living truth in your lives. By the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, it is my honor to declare you married in life, for life. You may seal your vows with a kiss, if you wish."

Stiles turns to him, his heart rate once again spiking with nerves, but Derek is so absolutely sure in this he can barely breathe. Stiles leans forward, a little awkward in his movements with his eyes closed and his lips puckered like someone in a bad movie or TV show. "No," Derek whispers, and the shocked stutter in Stiles's heartbeat makes him realize just how that may have sounded, but before Stiles can pull back in shame or embarrassment or disappointment, Derek's pressed his mouth against Stiles's, moved one hand to rest gently at his back, and he keeps the contact firm. Stiles's eyes go wide as Derek parts his lips a little, urging Stiles to do the same, and Stiles breathes a soft, surprised "oh" into his mouth as he grasps what's happening.

And then Stiles is kissing back in earnest, and everything feels _right_ for the moment they continue, until Derek feels the eyes of their officiant on them and pulls away slowly, feeling decidedly judged about the length of their kiss.

At least there hadn't been any tongue—though Derek is sure there have been far dirtier, longer kisses in this chapel, in any case. It's Vegas, after all.

There are a few moments between signing the marriage certificate and waiting for the photographer to figure out where he wants them both, and Derek uses that opportunity to take Stiles's hand and tug him gently until they're pressed against each other, leaning against a pew. Stiles still has a semi-stunned look on his face, as if he's half-asleep, maybe half-dreaming, but his heart rate isn't alarming. Still, it's not normal, and Derek leans back for a moment to look at him, needing to make sure. "Hey. You okay?"

"Did that whole thing actually happen? Or did I manage to hallucinate the last couple of minutes or so?" is the slow response, Stiles blinking at him like he's slightly drugged.

Derek honestly can't think of how to answer that without saying something sarcastic as hell. So he just huffs a small laugh and leans in to kiss Stiles again, taking his time and reveling in the feeling of Stiles practically melting into the touch, kissing him back with a slow, leisurely approach that still sparks a heat in Derek's chest.

"Never mind," Stiles breathes against his mouth when they part. "If I'm hallucinating or dreaming, you are under strict instructions to never wake me up."

Laughing, Derek nips gently at Stiles's earlobe. "Not hallucinating. Or dreaming."

"And I'm not drunk?" Stiles asks, starting to look more like himself.

"Not a drop of alcohol has been had." At least, not that he's aware of. In any case, Derek would smell it on Stiles, if it was even a fraction of the amount required to impair him, and there's not a hint of it.

"Huh." Stiles seems to be thinking things over. "Well," he says after a moment. "Then let's get these photos over with, finish out the night with a bit of fun, and get to the cake!" And it's that moment where Derek feels himself relax. Because that's totally Stiles, energy and levity and peculiar priorities, and it makes him feel like no matter how this all plays out, it'll be okay in the end.

"No cake here," Derek says, grinning, and Stiles snorts.

"Yeah, okay, there's the harsh reality. I knew it had to be around here somewhere."

"Dude!" Stiles says twenty minutes later, elbowing him when their wedding coordinator hands them a CD with their photos burned onto it. He's been trying to contain his amusement for a good ten minutes now at the poor photographer's frustration with his camera equipment. The guy's alternated swearing under his breath and promising Stiles and Derek he's never had a malfunction like this before, with his equipment unable to get a good, useable picture of Derek because of some sort of flash anomaly, and Derek's had to assure the guy it doesn't matter and they're not upset about a dozen times by now. He even tips him twice the customary rate, because it's not his fault he can't get Derek's eyes under control, and it's not like they can tell him what's up. "Dude!"

"What?" Stiles sounds gleeful about something, and Derek's come to know he should approach whatever it is with caution. It's a lesson he's learned well over the past couple of years.

"So, I don't know about you, but I didn't get in any good sight-seeing this afternoon. But Lisa said the complimentary limo's free to take us back to our hotel or another one, if we want."

"And?" Derek prompts, suddenly terrified he's going to be asked to ride around Las Vegas in the back of a limousine, standing up through the moon roof and trying not to be too embarrassed by Stiles hollering at everyone they pass.

"So, it's night time! And I'm betting you haven't seen the fountains at the Bellagio do their thing. Have you?"

"No." Derek feels himself relax again. That's okay. Touristy, but totally okay. He's heard good things about the show from Laura, who went to Vegas with some friends after she turned twenty-one, and from some friends of his from their days back in New York. He can be up for that.

"Okay. Then it's settled. We'll take the limo to the Bellagio." He nods firmly and turns back to their coordinator to set it up. Derek just kind of grins and figures he'll go with whatever Stiles wants to do tonight. If they get to kiss a few more times and enjoy their one night as pretend husbands while they're out in public, he can live with that. And tomorrow, they can figure out if the kissing might perhaps evolve into dating. So what if they're doing it a bit backward? It's not like conventional dating has worked for Derek in the past.

Conversation dries up a little in the limo. It's huge back there, and he and Stiles have a few moments of awkward moving around, trying to figure out where to sit—together in the seat that faces front, or across from each other on the benches on the side—finally settling on the back bench so they can sort of see out the windows, though the ridiculously dark tint on the glass. "Are those opals?" Stiles asks after a couple of minutes, after he's stopped gaping at all the stuff in the limo's back portion.

Derek looks down to where Stiles is gesturing, at his wrists, and remembers his cufflinks. He hadn't had a clue what to select to wear tonight, and had finally just gone for something he thought looked nice, but also not like his normal clothes. He'd resisted the urgings of the boutique employee to let her dress him fully, in a jacket and tie and belt, and gone with faded grey slacks and a plain white button-down shirt, which he'd kept done up, except for the top two buttons. The girl had actually pouted when he'd refused a tie, and he'd acquiesced to cufflinks at that point. "No." He clears his throat, suddenly a little embarrassed. "Moonstone." He'd picked them a little bit because they didn't look too flashy, but mostly because he thought Stiles would get a kick out of the selection.

"Oh my God, your cufflinks are made of moonstone?" Stiles cracks up, and Derek's ears go a little warm, but still, he's kind of pleased Stiles is amused. "A werewolf wearing moonstone accessories. I can't believe you." He stops laughing abruptly, and Derek recognizes that sort of focused look on his face that means he's information-gathering because he's trying to learn something that might be important later. "Actually, wait. Is there some sort of wolfy significance to moonstone? Like, culturally, or maybe having to do with your supernatural powers?"

"No. I just thought you'd be amused by the decision."

Stiles colors a little, visible even in the dim light here in the limo, and his right hand goes to his left, where he twists the ring around on his finger. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And now it's a little awkward again.

Their driver drops them off just before Lake Bellagio, after they pass Flamingo Way. There are people just starting to move away from the railings all the way down the lake, and Derek figures the fountains have just finished up one of their shows. "Do these things come on often?" he asks the chauffeur, juggling the bag with their other clothes while handing over his tip in one of the envelopes the wedding coordinator provided.

"Every fifteen minutes until midnight, this time of night," the guy assures him, saying thanks and pulling away while Stiles stands on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, looking towards the water.

"Looks like we missed this one, but the limo driver said it's every fifteen minutes until midnight," Derek says when he catches up to Stiles.

"That's not bad," Stiles says, lifting one shoulder in something like a shrug. "Let's see if we can get a spot near the railing before then."

Stiles manages to slide right in to one of the little landings set a bit closer to the water when another couple and their kids moves away, and Derek comes up beside him, leaning forward, his forearms resting on the railing. It's still warm, but it's pleasant now with the sun down. Stiles turns around so his back is against the railing, stretching his long legs out in front of them, and looks at Derek. "So. We got married. In Vegas." His smile is good-natured and a little crooked, like the events of the last couple of hours have been of no consequence. And compared to the events of almost twenty-four hours ago, when they'd been fighting against something that easily could have killed them, Derek supposes they aren't.

"We did."

"Ever think you'd be able to say that?"

"No." Never had the possibility of a spur-of-the-moment wedding to some kid he met through a series of weird coincidences and happenings around the time of his sister's murder crossed his mind before this morning.

"Me either." A pause. "You're not pissed off at me for it, or anything?"

"No."

"Cool." Stiles turns around and affects a stance like Derek's. They both stare out at the lake for a few moments, and then Stiles nudges Derek. "You know, there's kind of a breeze. I wonder if we'll get sprayed or something when the show starts. You might find yourself with a bit of attention, if you get wet. What with just the white cotton shirt on."

"I'm wearing pants," Derek points out.

Stiles grins. "Yeah. But I can guarantee you'll have some female admirers if you look like you're part of a wet shirt contest. Also, likely some male admirers."

Derek huffs. "Well, too bad for them, I'm your husband. You have a claim they don't."

Stiles does a weird sort of flailing movement, gets control of it, and then looks at Derek a little more intently than Derek expected. "I do, huh?"

"Marriage certificate kind of proves that." Among other things.

"And if I want to exercise that claim...?" Stiles asks after another moment, and Derek can hear the way his heart rate picks up, even over all the noises of the crowds. The question isn't as joking as his tone would imply to most people.

Derek honestly doesn't know what the hell Stiles has been thinking since their first kiss, if he asks like that, let alone what he's thought about the one in the chapel after that. He turns slowly towards Stiles, taking care to still appear casual, but also to not give any indication he's opposed. "Do you?"

Stiles's eyes are wide, reflecting the neon lights from up above them, all around them. "I—" He swallows hard, and Derek can smell his arousal, the tangy top note and the sweet, musky note layered under that. Stiles appears to have lost his ability to produce words, which is a fairly rare thing, and Derek smiles softly, unable to deny the sort of familiar affection he feels at seeing Stiles looking a little flustered, trying to come up with an answer.

"Do you?" he repeats, moving just a fraction closer, angling himself into Stiles a little more. He knows the answer, but he wants this to be Stiles's call.

"Fuck yeah, I do," Stiles says, words that would be inaudible if Derek's hearing wasn't so good, closing the gap between them. He crashes their mouths together, licking at Derek's mouth until he opens up into the kiss, and the quiet moan he lets out as Derek slides his tongue against Stiles's goes straight through Derek. He can't even help kissing back so enthusiastically, and he doesn't fucking care in the _slightest_ that they're in a very public place. Stiles doesn't exactly seem to mind, either.

"Ooookay," Stiles says breathlessly after a minute or two, breaking away. "We'd better stop now, or I'm going to have a very noticeable problem. But for the record, that was awesome. I'm exercising that claim some more tonight, while I still have it."

Derek chuckles. "I look forward to it." And he does. He really does.

They fall into a mostly-comfortable silence next to each other, and when Stiles sort of scoots sideways a little, his upper arm pressed against Derek's, Derek doesn't move away. It's nice like this, with Stiles close and a few hours of the night still left to spend together. When Stiles's phone chimes and he starts to fumble with it, texting and trying not to drop it into the lake, Derek takes a good look down at his wedding band. He hasn't paid it much attention at all until now, other than to notice that it fits, and isn't too wide of a band.

It's actually a nice ring, something he wouldn't be opposed to wearing for more than a night, if he had to. It's simple, but not a boring, plain band made of yellow gold, and Derek appreciates that Stiles at least picked something out that's decently fashionable. If he left this out on his night stand at some point, or Cora went digging through his things and found it, she might not immediately assume it was a wedding band and start with the questions. It's masculine without being garish, and the color doesn't clash with his skin tone. He slips it off to give it a better look, and the lights from all around them catch the inside of the band, making him notice there's engraving of some sort in there. Derek looks at it, turning it slowly to make out the words in the light, expecting to see the name of the jeweler or boutique marked inside. Instead of a brand or store name, though, there's a symbol and an actual inscription, and it makes Derek's breath catch.

He stares at it for several seconds, turning it back and forth in his hands, just to make sure he's not hallucinating. But no matter the angle, the inscription remains the same. _The Strength of the Pack_ gleams in the light, followed by a triskele halfway between the end of the words and where they start. Derek knows the original quote—it's from Kipling, and his grandfather'd had the full line engraved in the wood trim of their dining room table, where they'd always met for family meals: _For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack._ It had been an unofficial family motto, of sorts.

There's absolutely _no way_ Stiles could have known that.

Derek waits until Stiles tucks his phone back into his pocket before he opens his mouth, ring safely back on his finger. He's spent a good ninety seconds trying to figure out how to phrase the question that's going through his head, and has gotten nowhere with it. In the end, he just sort of blurts it. "You got my ring engraved." It sounds much more like an accusation than he intends.

The look on Stiles's face is confused for a split second before it settles into something vaguely panicked and uncomfortable. "Yeah? I, uh..." He clears his throat and makes a visible effort at being calm about it. He gives a smile that's uneasy, and doesn't meet Derek's eyes (which, to be fair, are _just_ short of going blue on him right now; the part of him that's wolf and instinct is demanding explanation and won't be soothed till he gets it). "You know what, dude, forget it. I'm sorry. It was stupid. It was the only wolf-related quote I could think of that wasn't related to Little Red Riding Hood. I didn't put any thought into it."

"Lie," Derek says automatically, because that last line pinged hard and bright, only slightly less obvious than flashing casino lights and clanging bells when someone hits a jackpot. "Truth. Now." He realizes suddenly how much of a dick he's being, how he sounds, and takes a very deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Please?"

Stiles looks up and blinks at him, then raises a hand and rubs the back of his neck. He looks uneasy still, but now more embarrassed than anything else. "Okay. So. I now realize that it might have been going a little overboard and all, but I'd just sort of meant it as a...reminder or promise or something that we'll still, you know, be here for each other after tonight's over? Like, we're pack, right? And friends too, and that stuff, but I thought the pack thing was important. Trust. Keeping each other's secrets and having inside jokes. Just the whole acknowledgement that we have some sort of bond. Like I said, I'm sorry, I overstepped some sort of bound—"

Derek doesn't even let him finish that sentence. Instead, he reaches out and gets a couple of fingers into the front pocket of Stiles's jeans, pulling him close. Stiles stumbles into him, caught totally off guard, and he's babbling some sort of misguided apology even as their lips meet. He catches on soon enough, though, which is good, because the absolute _need_ Derek has to kiss him right now is almost painful. "You want a promise we'll still be close after this whole thing?" he breathes when he finally makes himself pull away. Stiles's eyes are wide, his face is flushed, and he's breathing hard. "You've got it."

This time it's Stiles who more or less lunges forward for a kiss. They don't break it off until music starts playing, swelling all around them, and they both realize the fountains have started their show. It's total coincidence that it's something romantic-sounding that's playing. Derek recognizes the sweet female voice and orchestra behind it as one of his mother's favorite songs, and tries very hard not to think it's a sign of some sort as he and Stiles turn toward the water to watch. It's nicely orchestrated, the music and the movement of the water, and he's glad Stiles suggested this of all the touristy things they could have done instead.

Stiles was right, there is a breeze, but it's soft enough that they get only the lightest of sprays, no more than a fine mist. Derek can feel it at his open collar, on his face, and it cools his skin just enough for him to notice how warm he feels. They watch in silence, just standing there, and after the last note fades and the lights on the water go out, Stiles deliberately clears his throat. "So, I'm guessing you're okay with the engraving in the ring?"

Derek reaches out the necessary few inches and laces his fingers through Stiles's. Stiles positively lights up, a wide grin slowly spreading over his face as he looks down at their joined hands. "Yeah. You could say that." He's this close to doing something stupid, like telling Stiles he actually loves him. He wants to jump into this, even though that sort of thing has caused him so many problems in the past. Derek's been cautious about things of that nature for a while now, and not just in relationships. But something about Stiles makes him feel like it might just be okay to let go a little. Maybe it's the way Stiles just has what feels like an accidental-yet-effective balance between spontaneous and deliberate. Or maybe it's that Derek really _does_ trust that they have a bond that can't easily be broken, so many shared experiences and an understanding and respect between them.

Derek's not entirely sure the exact reason matters. Not right now.

Still, he bites back on any such declaration. It might be best to ease into that sort of thing.

He's relaxing against the railing, idly watching people as they pass by, and it's a welcome break to have nothing with life-or-death consequences weighing against him. He's not used to allowing himself time to just relax, to enjoy the moment, and he realizes this is half the reason—or maybe the whole reason—that Stiles made the impulsive decision to go through with Derek's bullshit answer this morning. They don't do nearly enough of this, and Derek knows it's something he may not exactly get _used_ to, but it's something he sort of wants to have as an option.

It's a few minutes before Stiles slips his hand out of Derek's and starts the fidgeting Derek's so used to. A lack of fidgeting for prolonged periods for reasons that can't be easily explained (such as 'dead-to-the-world asleep') is actually something that trips Derek's alert button, when it comes to Stiles. So he doesn't think much of it until several minutes past that point, when Stiles clears his throat until Derek turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

"So, you know how I ask stupid questions a lot?" Stiles offers up, and Derek pauses. He wants to say that no, Stiles doesn't ask stupid questions, but that's a lie. He does, sometimes. Sometimes those questions only seem stupid to Derek, it turns out, because he forgets not everyone has the background of growing up with—and as—werewolves, but sometimes, the questions _are_ legitimately stupid. Derek can't think of what to say in response, given the loaded question asked, so he just raises his eyebrows higher. "I think I have one right now."

Derek tries to brace himself for whatever is coming, but knows it's virtually pointless. Stiles's stupid questions are often the most random thoughts possible, and completely blindside Derek on a regular basis. There's no way to predict them. "Okay?"

"What if...?" Stiles starts, his voice timid, before he clears his throat and tries again. He suddenly smells like fear, but when he tries his question the second time, there's defiance behind it, a challenge of some sort. "What if I don't want to file for an annulment in the morning?"

For the space of about five seconds, everything in Derek's world violently screeches to a halt. Everything seems upside down and inside out. Maybe it's a brain tumor, suddenly becoming active, he thinks absently. Only werewolves don't get those.

He can't make himself answer for what feels like an eon. And all the while, as he's struggling to process what the fuck Stiles has just said—what he's _implying_ with that question—he can feel Stiles staring at him while he waits for an answer, his heart beating too hard and too quick.

"What did you say?" Derek finally says, when he finds words, because stalling for time is all he can think to do right this moment. It hadn't been a flat-out statement, which makes it a little harder to detect the lie, if it's present, but Derek's still pretty good at reading them. Especially when it comes to Stiles.

Stiles doesn't stop looking at Derek, his eyes wide and intense, like he can see _through_ Derek, or at least into him, if he tries hard enough. "I said, what if I don't want to file for an annulment in the morning?"

"We can do it in the afternoon, if you want to sleep in until check-out," Derek responds, mostly on autopilot, before he puts everything together: the way Stiles had nearly beamed at him when Derek had taken his hand a few minutes ago; the eagerness with which they've kissed tonight; all the private things Derek has heard Stiles saying to himself since they got to Vegas; some of the looks and gestures Stiles has given over the last year or so, quiet, private things full of emotions and thoughts Derek hasn't been able to name, having very little prior personal experience with them. And the inscription on the wedding band, and how that had made Derek _feel_ , overwhelmed and filled to the brim, and oddly, _achingly_ good.

Oh shit.

"That's not exactly—"

"You mean, what if we don't get this annulled at all, don't you?" Derek blurts, right over Stiles.

"Yeah. That."

Derek swallows hard, trying to ignore the way his stomach flip-flops at the idea. It's not terror he's feeling, but excitement, anticipation, _want_. And really, that decides him, because he's tired of trying to keep everything in check and doing what he feels is best for everyone, and not just himself, no matter if others don't see his reasoning the same way. "Then we stay married," he says, trying to sound matter-of-fact. Even he knows he doesn't pull it off. His voice cracks.

Stiles blinks, like he hadn't really expected that answer, like he'd expected to be laughed at, or solidly rebuffed. "You...you don't want to tell me I'm stupid, or crazy, or that there's no way in hell that's an option?"

He can't say that he thinks he loves Stiles, thinks he's loved him for a while now, and that there's something about the concept of actually having something together that makes his body thrum. He wants to have the chance to see if they can pull this off, if they have something as deep as Derek thinks they might, if the potential between them can foster something rich and fulfilling and ultimately _good_ , for both of them. It could go terribly, abysmally wrong, like every other relationship Derek's ever had...or it could go right, be just what he needs.

He reaches out, slowly, and the way he and Stiles both lean in to each other, as if they're both responding to something as inevitable and unrelenting as the pull of the moon, feels absolutely right. This kiss is as long as the last, but gentler, unhurried, and it calms the butterflies in Derek's stomach and wipes the acerbic scent of fear away from Stiles entirely. When Derek pulls away, he lets his hand linger at the back of Stiles's neck, his thumb swiping gently over the spot behind Stiles's ear. "No, I don't want to tell you that," Derek whispers into his ear, dipping his head and letting his lips brush over Stiles's jawbone, nosing over the warm skin there. Stiles shivers, arousal so thick a scent around him that Derek can taste it with each breath.

"You're up for it?" Stiles's voice is breathy, surprised and questioning, but there's a hint of pleading to the tone that Derek knows he's unable to control, that means he's more sincere in this than he perhaps wants to be. "Being married? To me?"

"Yeah. I am." He noses at Stiles's neck again. "You sure _you_ know what you're getting into?"

"Broody, fiercely loyal werewolf with killer abs, expressive eyebrows, and a way with sarcasm? Yeah. I think I'm good," Stiles huffs into Derek's ear.

"It's probably a good thing they didn't let us write our own wedding vows," Derek deadpans, and Stiles snorts.

"Whatever. My vows would have been awesome. I, Stiles, take you, Sourwolf, to be my lawfully wedded wolf. In full moons and in wolfsbane, with eyebrows or without—"

"Oh my God, shut up," Derek laughs, unable to help himself. "You're ridiculous."

"You know what else I am?"

"What?"

"Your husband." Stiles grins. "That's so weird to say. But awesome." He looks at Derek and raises his eyebrows. "You know what's supposed to happen, if we're going through with this, right?"

There's a suggestive waggle to Stiles's eyebrows, and Derek's got a pretty good clue where he's going with this. Still, he can play dumb. "What?"

"Consummating the union," Stiles says expressively. Derek would normally bang his head against the wall at the tone, or look heavenward and wonder why him, but he can't say he's uninterested in this detail. He thinks back to their hotel suite, to the surprise he's set up that Stiles still doesn't know about, and then can't help thinking about the solitary bed, wide and high and loaded with pillows.

"You want to?" Derek asks, just to hear Stiles say it, because he knows he does.

"You bet your ass I do. Or, uh, my ass. We'll figure that part out, I guess?" And now he blushes. For some reason, that flush does things to Derek, makes him picture pressing Stiles down onto the bed, climbing on top of him, kissing until they're dizzy. Derek suddenly realizes that beyond kissing, beyond holding hands, he's allowed to _touch_.

"Dude. Get the eye-flashy thing under control," Stiles murmurs. "You went all wolfy blue there for a second." He seems to realize something then; Derek can practically hear things click into place in Stiles's brain. "Oh my God, you totally want me, too. I turn you on. Awesome. I can deal with a little possessive werewolf behavior."

"Shut up and let's go," Derek says, feeling suddenly impatient. Stiles is right, though: Derek does want him. He'd had a few urges, a few dreams he'd never planned on admitting to, over the last several months, but had written them off, same as he'd written off the occasional indication that Stiles found him physically attractive: just hormones and physical reactions, which didn't mean anything. Being given the green light for this sort of thing sort of flips a switch in Derek, and it's suddenly clear for him just how much he would like to explore this new avenue. Yeah, it's been there, lurking under the surface, and it _did_ apparently mean something, after all.

He can admit to being oblivious and stubborn now and then, okay?

"But the fountains are starting again!" Stiles starts to protest, until Derek leans in and nips gently at his neck. He still smells good from his earlier shower—the soap they'd both used was thankfully only lightly perfumed, and it allows Stiles's natural scent to come through, even over that and the smell of brand-new clothes, straight off the rack. "Oh, okay, never mind, one show was good enough, so why don't you just—" He cuts himself off when the lyrics start up, and even Derek can't help but huff a laugh when Frank Sinatra's voice rings out, the words _fly me to the moon_ seeming to finish the sentence.

"Totally a sign," Stiles tells him, grabbing Derek's hand. "Come on. I'll let _you_ fly me to the moon, how's that?"

"Will you ever stop with werewolf-related puns?" Derek asks, letting himself be led back up Las Vegas Boulevard in the direction of their hotel, working against all the people trying to crowd closer to the fountains for the show.

"Hell no," Stiles says with a snort. "In fact, I think that license of ours gives me even more right to do it, now. I'm married to one," he says, not even bothering to drop his voice—not that anyone's paying them a damned bit of attention, anyway.

They make it back to their hotel in just over twenty minutes, dodging people in the crowds who aren't moving fast enough for their liking, and it's only that long because they've stopped at the pharmacy just past their hotel for a few provisions. Derek thinks that they might be able to get certain supplies from the concierge or something, but he really doesn't want to be _that guy_ , and Stiles had suggested the pharmacy stop, anyway. It's so close to their hotel, it only makes sense. Derek can't even say he's not sort of amused when Stiles finds the aisle they need, makes a quick selection after a brief pause to see if Derek has a preference or objection (he doesn't, though the condoms aren't strictly necessary, as far as protection goes), and then marches up to the cashier and puts the bottle of lube and the box of condoms down, no other items to disguise what their purpose for stopping in might be, with a look that dares the guy to say something.

The cashier doesn't even bat an eye. It's a pharmacy on the Las Vegas Strip, after all. Stiles almost looks a little disappointed.

If the entire walk through the lobby and then the wait for the elevator are an exercise in patience, then the actual ride up to their floor is something akin to an endurance trial. The closer they get to their room, the more Stiles smells like excitement and arousal, the plastic Walgreens bag and the paper one from the boutique where Derek got his outfit clutched tightly in his hand. And while Derek would really like to press him up against the wall of the elevator and do a number of filthy things to him, they're far from the only ones riding up to other floors. Derek does have _some_ sense of modesty.

Not everyone else seems to, though. A girl who gets onto the elevator at the last minute presses herself close to them both, and Derek does not fail to notice the way she looks them both up and down and moves closer a few more floors up, appearing for all the world like she's about to try out her own 'what happens in Vegas' fantasy in asking for a threesome.

"Down, boy," Stiles laughs softly into Derek's neck, and Derek realizes he's let out a very low—and thankfully quiet—growl as she's moved closer still, despite the emptying elevator. The girl seems the opposite of deterred, however, and Stiles is still grinning when he drags Derek past her and out of the elevator when the doors open for their floor. Stiles calls something that sounds like "Sorry, honeymoon" over his shoulder, but Derek's not even paying full attention, because he can see their door at the end of the long hallway, and that's where they need to be.

"For the record," Stiles says, leaning against the door to their room as Derek fumbles for the keycard in his wallet, "that possessive thing is all sorts of doing it for me right now. Come on, unlock the door so we can get inside and I can let you mark me up a little. If you want to."

Derek's suddenly glad the slacks he's wearing are looser than his jeans from earlier, because the thought of marking Stiles as his, sucking at his skin and nipping a just little harder than he's allowed himself, more than just the playful graze of teeth against skin, makes him kind of hard. He does allow himself a quick, sloppy kiss as he finally gets the card out and into the reader, delighted by the way Stiles presses up into him, trapped between Derek at his front and the door at his back. "I want to. If you're okay with it," Derek affirms, hearing the lock click. He fumbles with the knob at Stiles's side and guides them both into the room. It's harder than it should be, mostly because Stiles's hands are already trying to undo the buttons of Derek's shirt.

"I'm definitely okay with it," Stiles says, nodding vigorously. "Hickeys are fine by me, though we should probably limit their location a little. Also, some biting. _Some_. No 'whoops, sorry, now you're a werewolf' extremes, although you're a beta again anyway, so I don't have to worry, I guess. And I'm good with whatever scent-marking things you need to do. I'm pretty sure Peter was fucking with me that one time, and that doesn't include peeing on me? Because, uh, I'm open to a lot of things, but that's something I may need to work up to. Maybe a lot."

The thought of Stiles asking Peter any sort of questions that result in werewolf sex details is frankly sort of horrifying, but Derek's going to put that out of his mind for the moment. Especially since Stiles is getting somewhere with Derek's shirt buttons, and the feel of Stiles's hands on Derek's stomach makes him shiver. "I will not be peeing on you." Derek is up for some kinkiness, if Stiles is, but that particular act is neither a drive of his human side, nor that of his more primal wolf.

"Oh, thank God. I mean, I could learn to, you know, be cool with that sort of thing, but that's sort of an adjustment to my fantasies."

"You've had fantasies?"

"Oh my God, dude. I'm an eighteen-year-old guy. I've had so many fantasies. Maybe even one or two back when all you wanted to do was rip my head off, and those were kind of weird. But still hot. Maybe later, we could—ow, what the hell?"

"You okay?" Derek asks at Stiles's startled question. It's dim in this part of the room, and he probably should have been paying more attention to where they were going, since Stiles was walking backwards, and Derek's seen him flail and trip over nothing but his own feet and exuberance even in the broad light of day. Honestly, he'd been a little too wrapped up in wondering about Stiles having fantasies about him to pay attention to the things his eyes were good enough to see, that Stiles's weren't.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Stiles drops his hands for a moment and turns around, and Derek sees the thing Stiles managed to hit. "I just caught my hip on..." There's a protracted pause, and Derek can feel himself blush a little as Stiles notices what's in their way. "Derek?"

"I sort of arranged for someone to bring this up here a little while after we'd left," Derek says, feeling embarrassed. Stiles is looking at the room service trolley with wide eyes, like he can't believe what he's seeing.

"You got them to deliver a bottle of champagne. Even though you can't drink."

"Can't get drunk," Derek corrects. "I can drink." He shrugs. "I figured why not, right? You're supposed to have champagne when you get married. Even if it was only going to be for one night."

"Oh my God, you're actually kind of adorable someti—oh sweet Jesus, that's a chocolate cake." He turns from the cart to Derek. "We _do_ get wedding cake!"

"Yeah." It was one of the things Derek had set up shortly after Stiles had left this afternoon. The concierge had been very helpful, between suggesting a chapel in town, and arranging someone to deliver the champagne and a small cake for just the two of them to the room as a surprise. He'd been perhaps a little incredulous Derek had been so amenable to suggestions, without having much in the way of opinions regarding the details. He really didn't care about the brand of champagne, or which of the hotel's bakeries were used, or need any sort of particular design for the cake. The two stipulations Derek _had_ had were that the cake be chocolate, because he knew it was Stiles's favorite, and that it not have blueberries, because Stiles was allergic. "You mentioned cake. More than once. Figured we could at least do that tradition, too, even if we didn't do anything else." He raises his eyebrows. "I didn't know you were going to pick out rings."

Stiles flushes again, and Derek takes a sort of comfort in the fact that he's not the only one a little embarrassed by the considerations they've both taken. How the _hell_ had this whole potential thing between them eluded them both for so long, again? "Yeah, well, neither did I. Now, as much as I appreciate the champagne, and especially the cake, that can wait. Because I'm not gonna lie, I am really looking forward to the whole naked thing. With you. Like, right the fuck now." He sidesteps the room service trolley and tugs at Derek, who is only too happy to give in and follow Stiles's lead.

While Derek might legitimately appreciate Stiles's chosen outfit, with the vest that highlights his slim waist and the sleeves that are rolled up just enough to expose the muscles of his forearms, there are also enough layers to be truly frustrating in this particular moment. Stiles gets Derek's shirt off him fairly easily (though Derek does hear one of his cufflinks go flying somewhere in the vicinity of the bathroom door), and his long, nimble fingers are working at the button and fly of Derek's slacks before Derek can even get all the buttons of Stiles's damned vest undone. He growls softly, and Stiles huffs out a laugh against his neck before batting Derek's hands away in order to release himself from his own clothing. "I thought werewolves were always graceful," Stiles murmurs, stripping off vest and shirt at once, then moving on to shimmying out of his jeans.

Derek snorts. "Right now, you get either my fumbling attempt, or me shredding your clothing right off of you."

Stiles's eyes go wide—not in fear, but in interest. "Dude. We are _so_ doing that another time. I've got some clothes that are near enough the end of their life to be sacrificed to that cause. That very noble, worthy cause. Seriously." He bends down to remove his socks, and Derek has to bite down on his own lower lip at the sight of Stiles's arched back and shoulders.

Yeah. He wants this all right. Wants Stiles. All of him.

He's still staring when Stiles straightens up, and it's utter, wicked delight that shows on Stiles's face, shines in his eyes, when he catches Derek at it. He basically throws himself over the bed, reaching for the far edge of the covers to pull them back, and Derek knows—he _knows_ —Stiles made the move with the intent of giving Derek a good, direct view of his ass as he crawls on his hands and knees to complete the task.

It's all the teasing Derek can take.

He's on the bed in seconds, more or less pouncing on Stiles, who lets out a surprised yelp before adjusting to the shock, rolling over, and pulling Derek down on top of him. They're sprawled diagonally across the mattress, one of Stiles's legs tangled in the sheets, and Stiles's hands are _everywhere_.

There's not a lot of grace in either of their movements for quite a while, but there _is_ plenty of enthusiasm. At one point, Stiles actually manages to fall off the bed in his attempt to reach for the bag with the lube and condoms. He flails to his feet, a self-conscious expression on his face, but Derek just chuckles softly and pulls him back in for a lingering kiss. It's almost like giddiness, this feeling of knowing that Stiles is his, awkward movements and all.

"What do you want to do?" Derek whispers against Stiles's mouth when they break apart. "For our first time?"

Derek can hear Stiles's breath hitch at that, the implication that there will be many, many more times to follow, and the heavy, quick thud of Stiles's heartbeat underscores the thickness in his voice when he answers. "Can we—can you fuck me? But face-to-face?" Derek feels his eyes flash, just for a second, and Stiles makes a soft noise, pressing himself closer. "Is that a yes?"

"That is so much more than yes," Derek tells him, feeling the part of him that's more wolf than human want to howl its pleasure at the request. It's not just sexual release he wants, the chance to satiate that particular drive, but the bond that Stiles is implying along with it.

"Awesome," Stiles says, his breath hot against Derek's shoulder when he mouths at the skin there. Derek lets out a low, pleased growl, and drags Stiles back onto the bed with him. He works his way slowly from Stiles's throat, trailing kisses and light bites down his chest and torso, until Stiles is moaning and writhing beneath him. If he keeps making sounds like that, Derek might implode.

He slips one lubed finger slowly inside Stiles just a minute later, trying so hard to be gentle as he runs his tongue over Stiles's hip, and the noise Stiles makes as he does has Derek wondering how long he'll be able to last. He's so hard it's almost uncomfortable, but he knows it will be so very worth it to take his time right now, to get Stiles ready. Plus, the more of those sounds he can wring from Stiles, the better.

Also, Derek finds, Stiles has a frankly impressive vocabulary when it comes to swearing and dirty talk.

"Okay, on your back," Stiles gasps at him after a while. "You need to fuck me, right the fuck now, I'm not even kidding. And I need to be able to touch you while you're doing it." He makes a high sound when Derek removes his fingers, but snags a condom and tosses it at Derek while he repositions himself on the bed.

"You always going to be so demanding in bed?" Derek asks, though he wastes no time in putting the condom on and moving so he can lie on his back with the pillows under his head and shoulders.

"Maybe. Guess we'll find out. Why, that a problem?"

"Nope."

"Good." Stiles flashes him a wide smile. "Fucking hell, you're gorgeous." He crawls over to Derek, looking more than a little wicked, then straddles Derek's thighs. "Ready?"

Derek nods. "If you are." He barely has the words out before Stiles has Derek's dick in his hand and lowers himself slowly onto it.

He should probably be embarrassed by the noise he makes as Stiles slides down onto him, hot and wet and tight and _perfect_ , but he's too fucking gone to care.

Stiles rides him slowly at first, but picks up speed not much later. It's amazing, and seeing Stiles from this angle, being able to look up at him and the expression on his face, his lashes fluttering as he finds a rhythm, is something Derek doesn't even have words to describe. It's almost as good as hearing the choked moan Stiles makes when Derek catches his breath and wraps his still-slick hand around Stiles's dick and strokes him.

"Wait," Derek rasps some time later, feeling his orgasm build to a point where he will shortly be unable to hold it back. "Wait. Stop." Stiles gives him a concerned look, but Derek shakes his head. "Just for a second. I just want to—before I—" He manages to shift them both closer to the edge of the bed without Stiles having to climb off, drops his legs over the side of the mattress, and sits up most of the way. "Okay," he says, getting his hand back on Stiles, who wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders for support. "Go." He dips his head, licking and sucking at the curve of Stiles's shoulder and neck and trying to hold his orgasm off just a little longer, wanting to enjoy the feel of them pressed so close for as long as he's able.

"Oh God, right there, with the neck thing," Stiles groans, the rocking of his hips getting even faster. "More of that."

Derek is only too happy to comply, giving in to the urge to mark Stiles as his, to cover him in his scent and claim him entirely. Stiles tastes so good, arousal mixing with his own natural scent. It reminds Derek of coffee and rainstorms and something sort of earthy and sweetly spicy, like cinnamon. Derek wants that scent all over him, and his on Stiles. He wants them tangled together, entwined inextricably, so that there's no question they belong to each other. Because he wants Stiles as his, yes, but he also wants to belong to Stiles.

Stiles is whimpering steadily as Derek licks at the spot along his jawbone, just behind his ear, and when Derek drops his head a little more, letting his teeth graze Stiles's neck before he bites down gently—but firmly—along a spot on Stiles's collarbone, he lets out a throaty moan, shuddering in Derek's embrace as he comes all over Derek's hand. And that, the sight, smell, and feel of it, added to the knowledge that Derek was the one to get him there, is what pushes Derek over the edge, his face pressed tightly against Stiles's neck as he groans through his own orgasm.

Derek manages to roll them both onto their sides after a couple of moments, and only disentangles himself from Stiles's grasp long enough to duck into the bathroom and grab a towel so they can clean up a bit more. He's padding his way back when something bites sharply into the bottom of his foot, and he hisses curses under his breath as he limps back to the bed. "Stepped on a cufflink, I think," he explains, when Stiles raises up a little to look at him curiously. He slides back into bed, this time under the covers, while Stiles cleans himself up before joining him.

"Leave it to you to find the one thing on the floor to step on," Stiles mumbles, nuzzling at Derek's chest as he gets comfortable. Derek wraps one arm around Stiles's shoulder, tugging him closer. He doesn't bother to quiet the slight rumble in his chest when Stiles sighs happily and places a light kiss on his ribs.

He honestly can't remember when the last time he felt this content was, and it's not even all a direct result of surprisingly good sex. He's going to blame the feeling for doing something as ridiculous as catching Stiles's hand when he brings it up to rest on Derek's chest, then pulling it close and kissing the wedding band Stiles is still wearing. When Stiles looks up at him and gives him a look that's mostly unreadable, Derek shrugs and refuses to apologize. "It's a nice ring," he says instead. He didn't pay it any real attention during the moment he'd slipped it on Stiles's finger, but Stiles has been fiddling with it a lot since then. Now that he's not, Derek can actually get a look at it.

"Yeah," Stiles says, flushing a little. "It, uh, reminded me of your eyes. The colors." Derek has no words with which to respond, so he just tugs Stiles upwards a little, kissing him slowly, lazily, and maybe a bit more than a little gratefully. It seems like a very, very long time since Derek's been able to have something good, something nice for himself, and he can't suppress the hope that maybe Stiles is his reward for all that time going without.

Derek lets himself float on the cloud of endorphins and other such things for a while, reveling in the feeling of Stiles's hand lazily rubbing against his stomach, of his breath against Derek's skin, and letting the easy, steady beat of Stiles's heart lull him further into relaxation. Stiles dozes against him for a few minutes, and Derek places a surreptitious kiss atop his head. Stiles probably wouldn't give him shit for it, not now, but it still feels like a secret thing.

The gentle bite of Stiles's teeth to Derek's shoulder rouses him sometime later, and Derek raises his eyebrows in amusement at Stiles's quirked grin. "It's getting late," Stiles says, his voice soft in the semi-darkened room. "How would you feel about maybe cracking into that champagne and cake, while it's still our wedding night?"

Derek spares a glance to the trolley near the door, where the bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of mostly-melted ice. It should still be cold, and the cake should be perfectly fine as well. "I think that sounds acceptable."

Stiles huffs against his shoulder. "Good. Because you can't possibly have expected me to forget about the cake."

Laughing, Derek shakes his head. "You? Of course not." He slides out of bed, tugging lightly at Stiles's arm until he stands next to him, then kisses him again. He gets a pure, sweet smile in response, the one that's been making his heart ache at odd intervals for the last several months.

"And after the cake and champagne, we could, I dunno, shower? Together? And see about round two?"

He looks so hopeful, Derek can't help but grin even wider. They haven't properly slept since the night before last, but that doesn't seem that important right now. They don't have to be out of the hotel until eleven, and it's not like they have much to pack. "Sounds good to me."

"Of course it does. It's one of my ideas," Stiles scoffs lightly. He laughs and dodges Derek's good-natured swat, and Derek chases after him, grinning.

They don't get to the cake for another thirty minutes, but not even Stiles complains.

**Author's Note:**

> There is an appalling lack of photos of Dylan wearing a waistcoat/vest. I require more of these. Also photos of Hoechlin dressed up in something that does not involve a jacket and tie. Someone get on this, please. Even if it's just art (but a zillion bonus points and homemade cookies if you work wardrobe for something either of these boys are in).
> 
> Just for fun, the initial inspiration for their wedding outfits was [this, for Derek](http://cdnpix.com/show/imgs/7dbe427c9778d5fd2c38bc6c3ee5be6a.jpg), and [ this, for Stiles ](http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/2c/bd/d8/2cbdd88aefd24a0481b5b5c6c559a916.jpg). They're not exact, but an idea.


End file.
